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“Hi, this is Stella Markham. I need to schedule a pap smear. It’s been a while—I’ve been meaning to do it for a while now.” I eyed our produce order absentmindedly, sure they wouldn’t have an opening for weeks. So I had plenty of time to work up to the horrible, awkward ordeal.
“Of course, Ms. Markham. Let me see when we can fit you in.”
As I waited, the sound of something hitting the floor in the kitchen punched through the thin walls, followed by a muffled curse. “Everything okay out there?” I called out as I wrapped my hand over the phone’s speaker, half-standing as if I could see through the wall.
“Damn spuds slipped! I’m on it!” Rea’s voice carried back to me, edged with frustration.
“All right, we have an opening—” As the receptionist started, another clatter sounded. This crash was louder, pulling my attention once more.
“Rea?” Anxiety pitched my voice higher as scenarios raced through my head—burns, cuts, scalds…
“Sorry! Butterfingers today, but nothing’s on fire, promise!”
“Okay, noted.” I forced a laugh, though my heart hadn’t quite received the memo to calm down.
“Ms. Markham, are you still there?” The receptionist’s voice pulled me back to the call.
“Uh, yes. Sorry about that. Kitchen chaos.” I rubbed my forehead.
“Understood. We all have our days. The good news is we just had a cancellation. Can you come in at nine fifty tomorrow morning?”
“Tomorrow morning?” I squeaked, glancing at my calendar. I winced at the blank square, knowing procrastination just went out the window. Maybe it was better to get the damn thing over with. “Yes, that should work. I’ll take it.” The crashing sound of glass breaking had me spinning toward the door.
“Great,” the receptionist chirped. “Dr. Nelson has retired, and the new?—”
“Sorry, I need to go,” I interrupted. “The new doctor will be fine. See you tomorrow morning.” I tapped the end call button before she could finish and set the appointment in my phone. “Everything under control?” I asked as I hurried back into the kitchen.
“Sorry! The potatoes took a dive,” Rea admitted, wiping her hands with a towel as a stainless-steel container of them rinsed in the sink. “Then when I gathered them back up, I dropped the bowl again.”
“Don’t worry, potatoes are resilient.” I smiled and examined the brightly colored baby vegetables. Though thin-skinned, I doubted they suffered any real damage. Just to be sure, I picked up one of the fallen tubers and inspected it for bruises. “You know how it goes—one potato, two potato…”
“Three potato—floor.” Rea grinned and we shared a short laugh that cut the tension. She picked up a chef’s knife and placed the brown vegetable on a cutting board, peering at it. With a sigh, she started cutting it, her hand moving with slow, unsteady motions.
“Let me give you a hand,” I offered, grabbing my knife. The familiar weight of the handle brought a comforting sense of order. I sliced the potato into even medallions, falling into a satisfying, peaceful rhythm.
“Damn, Stella. Your knife skills are unreal.” The whites around Rea’s eyes were obvious as she watched me work. “Think I’ll ever get there?”
“Keep at it, and you will,” I assured her, tossing the slices into a bowl. “It’s all about practice and patience. And being careful. Don’t ever rush cutting.”
“I do my best not to draw blood.” The corners of her lips turned up in a smile.
“Hey.” I nodded to her. “You’ve got the touch. The desserts you whip up? Pure magic.”
“Thanks, Stella.” Smiling, she started on another potato, while Matt and Tomas gathered several bunches of celery and started to work on them. Matt was slow but focused, exactly what I wanted to see in a new cook.
As I returned to my work, my mind drifted to the upcoming appointment. And the new fact that Dr. Nelson, the familiar face of Dove Key’s clinic and practically everyone’s childhood, had retired. Change was inevitable, yet it always seemed to come at the most inconvenient times. Instead of having a month to work up to the embarrassment of having my feet in the stirrups, I had to face it in a few hours. Maybe a new doctor would be a good thing. Sometimes it was easier to bare yourself to a stranger.
The clinic was a hive of quiet activity, a stark contrast to the morning stillness I’d left behind on Calypso Key. I settled into a corner seat in the waiting room, my gaze flitting over the sea of faces as patients leafed through outdated magazines or tapped on their phones. I fished out my own phone and started scrolling through my favorite cooking blogs. A new post on sous-vide techniques caught my eye, and I lost myself in the culinary possibilities.
“Stella Markham?” a woman’s voice cut in.
“Here.” I pocketed my phone and followed a pretty, dark-haired medical assistant down the hallway. The scent of antiseptic hung in the air, mingling with the low hum of hushed conversations from behind closed doors.
“Step on the scale for me, please,” she said, her tone professional yet friendly. Her nametag read Maria.
I complied, watching the digits flash before stepping off, and was pleased with the number. All that running paid off, keeping me trim despite being a chef. After seeing me into an exam room with white paint and seascapes on the walls, she wrapped the cuff snugly around my arm.
“Blood pressure’s good,” she noted, tapping the entry into my electronic chart.
